You Are Enough
by Calworks
Summary: Miguel's just trying to be a good parent to his daughter. It's hard to feel like his best is good enough, though, when he's the only parent she has. (rated for mentions of pre-story death, and the OC is the daughter) [Daily Drabble, August 1, 2018]


**Title: You Are Enough  
** **Category** : Coco (2017)  
 **Prompt** : "6/10" by dodie, feat. Thomas Sanders  
 **Summary** : Miguel's just trying to be a good parent to his daughter. It's hard to feel like his best is good enough, though, when he's the only parent she has.  
 **Words** : 996  
 **Notes** : Second of the Daily Drabble! This is also the first part of a greater series called No Time to Cry, focusing on Miguel's adventures as a husband (briefly) and single dad. It gets sad sometimes. You'll be able to find the series collected in one place on ao3 (same user name) once there's more posted.

* * *

When Miguel comes home and his daughter isn't there to greet him at the door, he thinks something must be wrong.

When he finally finds her, he knows.

She's curled up on her bed, washed in the fading maroon of the sunset. Though she has her back turned to him, he can see the edges of the colorful blanket she's clutching. Eyes on its worn thread, all the concern that was knotting itself in his chest unravels, and he feels himself lose his grip on all the words he had ready for her.

Quietly, he crosses the room and seats himself at her side.

"Hola, Leala," he murmurs, careful not to disturb the air. "I'm home."

"Hi."

"Hey." He musters a smile, though she doesn't look. "How was your day?"

"…It was hard."

"Mm." He nods in agreement. "Mine was long, too. Did something happen?"

"Yeah."

"…Do…you want to talk about it?"

"Not really… It wasn't important."

Which really means that she's still processing whatever is bothering her, he knows, and she's not ready to discuss it.

"Okay, that's okay."

He swallows his disappointment, tries and fails to do the same with his feelings of helplessness. The two sit in silence as he waits.

"…I miss Mamá."

He was expecting it, but it still steals his breath a little. There's nothing he can say. No "I know" or "I miss her, too" is going to make her feel better about it. Or him, as a matter of fact.

Eventually, she turns her head to look at him, and he wordlessly opens his arms for her, easily absorbing the impact and accepting the armful of twelve-year-old. Settling more comfortably on the bed, he can feel the blanket still in her arms—his late wife's creation, flawed but colorful, and made for Leala when she was little.

"…Every year," he starts slowly, falling back on the familiar words, "a bridge appears for just a little while. It glows like sunlight when you step on it, and it connects the Land of the Living to the Land of the Dead." He continues, his voice a low, comforting murmur as he describes the lights, the colors, the alebrijes, the music. As he speaks, he feels Leala slowly relax in his lap.

He takes her from the slums of the nearly forgotten to the heights of the always remembered, as he has many times before. He speaks of every Rivera he met there when he was her age, painting them in purples and oranges and yellows and fire and flowers and leather and, most importantly, in love. He details as much as he can remember, down to the calavera markings on their skulls.

Finally, he murmurs the part of the story he knows not in his memory, but in his heart. He speaks heavily and hopefully of the reunion, of how the Riveras welcome Leala's mother with open arms and soothing words and demands for news. He describes her mother in colors just as vivid as he described the others—in red and blue and metal and starlight. He describes her the way she was on her last day, from her hair to her shoes to her fire.

He usually doesn't get to tell the story like this, uninterrupted and gentle. Uncertain if he'll get a response or not, he tentatively asks, as he always does, "And she has beautiful markings around her eyes, maybe even on her cheekbones or her jaw. What color do you think they are?"

His daughter has a different theory every time. Maybe they're red, yellow, and blue to match her mamá's dance uniform, or maybe they're pink, orange, and green like the flowers she planted, or maybe they're purple because she was so much like Mamá Imelda (when she offered that one, Miguel laughed and told Leala that she was way more like Mamá Imelda than her mamá).

He's heard so many colors, so many reasons, but tonight, Leala just closes her eyes tighter, as if shutting out the image.

"Leala?"

"I don't want to imagine her in the Land of the Dead… I want her _here_ , Papá. With us."

Miguel has no words good enough to respond to that. He can only tuck her closer to him, hoping it's enough.

"… _Remember me…"_

Leala's breath catches.

" _Though I…have to say goodbye… Remember me…don't let it make you cry…_

" _Know that I'm with you…_ " Miguel closes his eyes against his own tears as he hears Leala finally succumb to hers, sobbing as quietly as she can into his shirt as he sings. " _…The only way that I can be…"_

Inhale.

Exhale.

" _Until you're in my arms again…_

" _Remember…me…"_

He continues to sing, as gently as possible, as she works through her tears.

The room is dark before he realizes that she's asleep. Heaving a heavy sigh, he shifts carefully to lay her down. Still humming quietly to her, he carefully undoes the rest of her braids, pulls her mamá's blanket over her, and then steps lightly out of the room, wiping his eyes as he goes.

In the hallway, he nearly bumps right into someone just outside the door. He turns aside just in time to avoid stepping on her toes. "Mamá? What are you… Have you been out here this whole time?" He purses his lips. "Why did you stay out here?" _Maybe you would've known what to do, better than I did,_ he tries not to imply.

"Oh, mijo…" Luisa pulls him into her arms. "You were doing a fine job on your own."

He can't help scoffing, the sound watery. "It's never enough, Mamá."

He feels her shake her head. "Don't think that. You are enough; you will always be enough for her."

She pulls away and takes his face in her hands. He lays his hands over hers, leaning into her touch. "You're doing a hard thing, Miguel; it's okay to struggle. It doesn't mean you aren't succeeding."


End file.
